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by days4daisy



Category: In Bruges (2008)
Genre: Age Difference, Extra Treat, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Misunderstandings, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-09 19:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17412740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: 'Oddity' is a good word for the situation Ken wakes to.





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**Author's Note:**

  * For [asuralucier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/gifts).



> Happy Chocolate Box, asuralucier! Hope you enjoy this treat :)

There are few nights when Ken drowses in full contentment. Warm and secure, not alone. The sensation is pleasant, and he basks in whatever late night vision inspired it. A vision, no doubt, coaxed into being by Bruges.

Bruges, yes. With its no frills bed and breakfast, its bare room, and its simple wooden bed posts.

In Ken’s dreams, the body at his back is usually slighter and feminine. Ken rouses to a more sturdy presence tonight. Heavy breaths burst between Ken’s shoulders, and a hand sits on his spine. Wide, undoubtedly male.

Ken stirs to the sour taste of wakefulness. The room’s meager dresser lets off a blueish hue under the shadows of twilight. He lies on their single shithole bed in their single shithole room. Fantastical as its surrounding city is, their room in Bruges is a dull slate. It was the final unoccupied "suite" in Marie’s establishment for understandable reasons. Neglected for its drabness clearly, save whatever oddities its occupants tote with them.

'Oddity' is a good word for the situation Ken wakes to. Ray has fit himself to Ken’s back. His breaths tickle Ken’s neck and his naked toes curl between Ken's legs. Their bodies fit snug enough to rouse even Ken’s old blood.

In hindsight, it surprises Ken that this is the first time he's woken in this state. There have been Bruges nights with enough liquor to soak even Ken’s well-watered bones. He has flopped into bed, nose still tickling from lines of cocaine. The only wonder is that this situation befalls them on a sober eve. Besides, Ray is still young and prone to flights of romance. Who knows what pining thoughts have driven him to seek the warmth of another in his sleep?

Common sense would dictate to leave this situation alone. Their positions should correct by morning with Ray none the wiser.

Ken’s one pause is that he finds the contact pleasant. He can be forgiven on human grounds; a man of Ken’s varied persuasions will of course react to such things. He is no stranger to Ray’s looks, nor to his charming, if at times insufferable, immaturity. Ken never intends to act, of course. Ray is his partner and a good kid to boot. But Ken’s eyes are not blind, nor - it seems - is his body numb to carnal instinct.

Ken worries for the lack of control he will have over his sleeping body. Who is to say that Ken will not wake from his next rouse in a more troublesome predicament? Ray will have plenty to squawk over in that case.

No, better to grin and bear Ray's affront now. Ken can ignore Ray’s grumpily muttered slurs and go back to sleep with a satisfied conscience. May as well get on with it.

Ken glances over his shoulder. “Oi, Ray,” he whispers. Ray gives no response, and Ken cannot see his face. “Ray,” Ken repeats, a touch louder. “Give a man a bit of space, yeah?” A shift this time, and a staggered breath. “Ray?”

“Can I get a bloody minute, Ken?” The question cracks down the middle.

Ray's eyes are red-rimmed and glisten with unshed tears. A quiver shakes his thin-pressed mouth. “A minute,” Ray repeats. “Then I’ll get out of your hair, alright?” Stunned to silence, Ken nods.

Ray's forehead sinks between Ken's shoulders. Fully awake now, Ken hears his partner’s hitched breaths. Every hiccup seeps warm through Ken's shirt. The hand resting on Ken’s back shivers.

“Ray,” Ken says.

“I don’t have the piss in me that you or Harry got, alright?" Ray's voice wavers. "I just need one goddamn minute, just-”

“Ray.” Ken peeks over his shoulder. “Move your hand.” Ray’s swollen eyes show confusion. When he looks down, he finds Ken’s hand on his own side in invitation.

Ray scowls like a child about to toss to the floor in a fit. “Don’t look at me,” he hisses. Without a word, Ken turns back around.

It takes only seconds for Ray’s tentative fingers to curl over Ken’s side. Ken pushes the warmth of the contact deep down. It won’t do any good at a time like this. Sighing, he drapes his hand over Ray’s.

Under him, Ray's fingers nervously flex. Then, Ray begins to weep in earnest. “I killed a little boy,” he whispers.

Funny, Ray is no more than a boy himself in Ken’s eyes.

Ken squeezes Ray's hand as tears soak into his shirt. Ray’s muffled sobs spill down Ken’s back. He shakes against Ken's back like a shifting fault line.

On another eve, maybe Ray will allow Ken to face him. To embrace him, even kiss his hair. Maybe. But for now, Ken only squeezes Ray’s hand.

Ray's twitches in reply.

*The End*


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